My Dear Brother
by JasNutter
Summary: In the darkness of the lonely countryside, a young Holmes comforts his tiny brother.


_A/N: I find it a little bit strange how BBC has strayed from the canon in the Holmes brothers relationship. Perhaps it's something to do with their plot lines, I dunno, but they get along swimmingly in the books. Sherlock acknowledges Mycroft's superior intellect and even goes to him for opinions on cases. It is also mentioned that Mycroft taught Sherlock everything he knows of the science of deduction. _

_I hope you enjoy this. Please leave a review. :) _

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It was becoming a nightly routine: the silent padding, the soft creak of the ninth stair from the top, more shuffling and the hesitance outside his bedroom door before the padding was redirected back to the stairs, the creak was heard once more and more shuffling returned before silence. On this particularly still night however, young Mycroft Holmes was mildly surprised as the hesitance was followed with the sound of his bedroom door opening.

One of the many perks, the eleven year old knew, of living in the country, was how the quiet honed one's hearing into gathering from the slightest rustle of leaves, the softest scurrying of cockroaches across floorboards, to the hushed rhythm of his four years old brother's breathing. The flurry of wings and the loud squawk of the bird that landed on a nearby branch seemed to startle him, for the tiniest gasp seemed to echo into Mycroft's ears as his baby brother froze in place.

"Scared, Sherlock?" he asked, without so much as shifting from where he lay under the blankets, eliciting a jerk of surprise from the boy, his breath hitching. If he'd been listening he'd know Mycroft was fully awake and fully aware of his nightly adventure. Mycroft reminded himself to teach him.

"No," Sherlock said boldly, shuffling on the spot, his cotton pajama bottoms whispering as he rubbed one leg against the other, obviously nervous. Mycroft felt a sudden rush of affection for the little boy and he shifted, turning over to see him standing by the window, rising no more than three feet from the ground. Washed in the incandescent light of the night, he seemed even paler, even thinner and even more vulnerable under the shock of the curly mop, more unruly than ever due to the tossing and turning in his own bed.

"No", he said again with more conviction, yet not enough for the tiny speck of spit glistening on his left thumb was clearly a remnant of his nasty nail biting habit, one that arose often out of fear. "I wanted to see if you were stealing cakes up to your room again."

"It's alright to be scared, brother," Mycroft said smiling at the lie, and Sherlock scowled. "You'd be stupid if you weren't. There are all kinds of ominous things out there."

Sherlock frowned at him and tugged slightly on his left ear, pursing his little lips. "What's ominous?"

"Threatening, evil things", Mycroft told him, and smiled in amusement as Sherlock gave a quick, frightened glance out of the window, shuddering. "Come here, Sherly."

Sherlock scowled again as he shambled obediently towards the four-poster. "Don't call me that."

Mycroft laughed, scooting over as Sherlock climbed on to the bed and sat against the headboard, drawing his knees up to his chest. "I'll call you what I like, baby brother," he said and got poked him in the arm with one tiny forefinger.

"Now tell me what the matter is."

Sherlock was tugging on his left ear once more, as though he was embarrassed, looking at the sheets instead of his brother.

"Do you want to stay here with me for a while?" Mycroft asked softly. Sherlock hesitated before nodding slightly. "Get under the covers, then."

Sherlock hesitated again, and then lifted the covers and wriggled in, his chilly body invading the comfortable warmth and making Mycroft shiver. His hand went up to his mouth again as he made a move to bite at his nails again and Mycroft caught the hand in his own, marveling at how small and delicate it was. If he held it in his own it would just disappear.

"What's the matter, Sherlock", he asked softly, and Sherlock shifted closer, his cold feet touching Mycroft's hip, his small hand resting on Mycroft's fat arm. He turned to look at his older brother, green eyes uncertain.

"It's dark and cold upstairs", he said quietly, as if saying it any louder would make the admission real. "There are strange shadows on the wall and weird noises. I can't sleep."

"You can stay here if you like."Mycroft told him, almost whispering, afraid to scare the boy. "Would you?"

Sherlock nodded, wriggling closer into his older brother's comfort. Sherlock wasn't one to usually seek physical comfort, in fact he almost abhorred being hugged or cuddled, and Mycroft knew there was more bothering his little brother than mere creepy shadows and eerie sounds. He held his tongue, however, lightly stroking the tangled mess of wool that was his hair, knowing the dam would eventually burst.

And burst it did, sooner than Mycroft expected.

"Where are Daddy and Sherrinford, Mycroft? Why aren't they back yet?" He asked, and Mycroft, startled by the suddenness of the question, momentarily ceased his stroking, upon which Sherlock huffed and nudged his hand with his head like a cat. In the entire duration of nearly two months in which their father and older brother had been absent, leaving their Mummy to the affairs of the estate, Sherlock had not once inquired, or shown any interest whatsoever in their whereabouts or even why they were gone and when they'd be back.

"Mummy said they'd be back today last week", Sherlock said, his voice lowering even further as Mycroft resumed his soothing caress, "but they haven't come. They haven't even sent anything, I checked Mummy's pile."

If he were to be completely honest, Mycroft didn't know where they were or when they'd be back either, an eleven year old was rarely trusted with that kind of information, so he was quite unsure of what he was supposed to tell his comfort-seeking brother. "Do you miss them?" he asked, and Sherlock squirmed, perfectly aware of Mycroft's stalling.

"Do you know where they are?"

"They'd hardly tell me, Sherlock", Mycroft told him honestly. "But they're away on business and I'm sure they'll be back by Christmas. Hey, maybe they'll bring you back the magnifying glass, just like the one I have, so you can observe", he continued, making a mental note to request Mummy to send a note about that. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

The child considered it, and nodded under Mycroft's hand. Yes, yes he would.

"How about you borrow mine in the meantime and I'll teach you everything to look for, yes?"

Sherlock brightened immediately and turned up to face his brother, one sticky, miniature hand clutching at a wrist. "Really? I can borrow it?"

Mycroft smiled down at him, heart warming at the sight of his beaming little face.

Sherlock happily snuggled deeper into the pillow, accidentally kicking Mycroft's thigh. "Will you read to me from one of your chemisty books too?"

"Chemistry, Sherlock", Mycroft corrected warmly," and yes, if you're particularly good."

"Okay." Sherlock yawned and sighed, closing his eyes. "Tell me how you knew Mrs. Granger's daughter ran away."

"I told you this morning, Sherlock."

"Tell me again."

Halfway into the recounting of his deductions the boy had already drifted off to dreamland, and Mycroft closed his eyes and followed suit. The Holmes household slept, fears removed and anxiety caressed away, the countryside shrouded in a transitory peace, dreaming of soft, buttery muffins and shiny hand lenses, the fright and the worry relenting for the while, until the next time Sherlock came to his big brother and his big brother comforted.


End file.
